this is coyote’s dream

sometimes nails are worn into dirt, sometimes pads fill their fleshy rifts with dust. Combust. powder smokes out behind the flurry of digging. there is a mealworm, a desperate consumption, that has burrowed before tectonically beneath. insect organs submarine through blood. a tiny ocean of fuel and to cricket through. wash it like a hand. wash it like the other hand. Combust. shells are shattered into stones, stones are crushed into powder. collected with nets. packed into pillboxes or bullet casings. sometimes driven through. there is sleep but the sun has a way of finding all the sides of dust. this is not the smallest geometry. the skin of this is hammerless. the fur of this is engineless. rain will mud this together. something to make a print.